The Sentinel Mage

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE





KAREL STRODE THROUGH the marble corridors, dressed in the gold and scarlet uniform, his sword belted at his side and the armsman’s torque around his throat. Hurry. Hurry.

But when he reached Duke Rikard’s rooms, all was quiet. The duke must still be briefing the new commander. There was no bustle, no noise, no urgency. The door to the bedchamber was shut.

The armsman he replaced left without speaking a word.

Karel stood for a moment in the empty salon. Should he take his place against the wall like a good armsman and wait for whatever happened next?

No.

He strode across to the bedchamber and knocked. After a moment, Yasma opened the door. “Karel.” Surprise crossed her face. “Is it noon already?”

“I’m early.” Behind Yasma, he saw the princess seated before the mirror, the golden crown partly bound to her head. “Is the princess going into exile with Rikard?”

Princess Brigitta’s head turned. She stared at him across the room.

“You didn’t know?” Karel said, looking at the princess, not Yasma.

“No,” Yasma said. “The duke left just after midnight. He hasn’t been back since.”

“Exile?” Princess Brigitta pushed to her feet and hurried across the bedchamber. “Rikard?”

“Your father’s stripped him of his dukedom,” Karel told her. “And command of the army. He’s being exiled to Horst. Leaving tomorrow.” He waited a heartbeat, and then asked directly, “Do you have to go with him?”

It was an impertinence to speak so to her, but the princess didn’t appear to mind. “I don’t know.” Her brow furrowed, and then she blinked and purpose came into her face. “No. I won’t go with him!” She turned and half-ran back to the mirror. “Quickly, Yasma! Finish my hair! “





KAREL WAITED TENSELY in the salon. If Rikard comes now—

He paced to one end of the room and back. The door to the bedchamber opened. Princess Brigitta emerged. She crossed the salon, then turned in a flurry of silk. “You must come too, Yasma! Bring my cloak. Quickly!”

They walked briskly—mistress, maid, armsman—through the corridors of the palace. At the king’s antechamber, the princess demanded entrance. “I must speak with my father,” she said imperiously.

They waited only a few minutes. Karel stood to attention, staring straight ahead. On the wall was a map of the Seven Kingdoms, lettered in gold leaf. Osgaard looked like a bloated octopus, its tentacles reaching north, south, west. It had swallowed Meren and Brindesan, Horst, Karnveld, Lomaly, and the Esfaban islands.

His eyes traced the borders of the Seven Kingdoms. If Osgaard conquered Lundegaard, it would rival Ankeny in size. There would be only six kingdoms and the maps would have to be redrawn, yet again.

An armsman opened the door into the king’s audience chamber. “You may enter, highness.”

Princess Brigitta took a deep breath. “Wait for me here, Yasma, Karel.” She pinched her cheeks to give them color and stepped through into the audience chamber.





BRITTA HADN’T SEEN her father since the day of her marriage. He seemed to have grown in size, in anger. He sat on his golden throne, his face florid, his anger palpable as he watched her approach.

Her heart began to beat even faster. Harkeld’s voice whispered in her ear: Don’t let him see you’re afraid.

Jaegar stood at one of the windows, a faint smile on his lips. Anticipation seemed to glitter in his eyes.

“Did Rikard send you to beg for him?”

“No, Father.” Britta took hold of her courage. “I’ve come to ask that my marriage be annulled.”

Her father’s brows lowered. Rage seemed to gather on his face.

Britta spoke quickly: “Rikard failed you, and you rightly punish him. Exile him, Father—but don’t allow him to take me with him. Else you’ll be seen as rewarding him.”

There was silence in the chamber. She was aware of the armsmen standing motionless against the walls, aware of the harsh sound of her father’s breathing. Jaegar stepped away from the window. He strolled across the marble floor and halted in front of her, studying her face.

Britta swallowed. Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat.

Jaegar reached out and lightly touched her chin, tilting her face upward. He turned to their father. “She’s right,” he said. “You strip Rikard of his title and his command of your army, you exile him—and yet you reward him with this. Your own daughter.”

Britta held her breath.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Jaegar caressed her cheek lightly with his thumb. “Such a shame to waste her.”

The king stared at her from his throne, heavy-browed, his mouth pinched in anger.

Jaegar released her chin. “She could be the answer to our most pressing problem.” He strolled over to the dais and bent to whisper in their father’s ear. Britta caught the word Harkeld.

The king’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her. For a long moment there was utter silence. She heard her father’s breathing, heard the beating of her heart—and then the king spoke: “Very well. Annul it.”





JAEGAR WROTE THE annulment on a sheet of parchment. The king signed it, the quill making brisk scratching sounds as he scrawled his name.

Her brother applied the royal seal: scarlet wax and gold leaf. “Done,” he said, rolling the parchment up and handing it to her. His voice seemed to hold faint amusement.

Britta curtseyed towards the throne. “Thank you, Father.”

Jaegar escorted her to the door. “I suppose you’d like your old rooms back.”

“I don’t mind.” I’ll sleep anywhere, as long as Rikard isn’t with me.

“Take them. No one else is using them.”

“Thank you.” Britta gripped the annulment tightly. “What did you mean? About me being a solution to a problem?”

Jaegar’s smile widened, sharpened, showing his teeth. “We know how fond Harkeld is of you.”

An armsman opened the door for her. Britta found herself in the antechamber before her mind had sorted through the implications of the statement. Was she to be bait to catch Harkeld?





PRINCESS BRIGITTA RETURNED to Rikard’s suite. “Take what we’ll need overnight,” she told Yasma. “We can come back for the rest once he’s gone.”

Yasma hurried into the bedchamber.

Karel followed the princess to the dining room and took up position just inside the door. The picture he’d drawn last night lay on the table: soldiers chasing a party of bandits into the mountains.

The princess laid down the annulment and put the drawing aside without looking at it. She uncapped the ink flask, dipped the quill in it, and began to write hurriedly on the next sheet of blank parchment.

Karel tried to read upside down. Rikard, my father has annulled our marriage. I am no longer your wife.

His gaze lifted to Princess Brigitta’s face, to the faintly furrowed brow, the golden crown. She was stronger than he’d realized—to confront her father, to demand an annulment. He’d underestimated her courage.

In the salon, a door opened. Heavy footsteps strode into the room.

“Princess,” Karel said in a low voice.

The princess had heard the footsteps. She sat frozen for a moment, her face leached of all color, then she stood, reaching for the annulment.

Rikard flung open the door to the bedchamber. “Brigitta!”

The princess stepped into the salon. Karel heard her inhale, saw muscles work in her throat as she swallowed, saw her hand tighten around the roll of parchment. “I’m here,” she said.

Rikard turned. “There you are.” He strode towards her. “Pack your belongings, my lady. We’re leaving.”

“I am no longer your wife,” Princess Brigitta said. She held out the roll of parchment. “The king has annulled our marriage.”

Rikard halted. His face stiffened as if he’d been struck. “You’re mine.”

The princess shook her head. “No.”

That word, quietly spoken, seemed to enrage Rikard. Rage blossomed red on his face. He took a step forward, one hand going to the hilt of his sword.

Karel stepped in front of the princess. “Dare you draw your blade in the presence of a royal princess?”

Rikard gripped his sword hilt. “She’s my wife!”

“Not any more.”

Movement in the doorway of the bedchamber caught Karel’s eye. Yasma stood there, terror on her face.

“Ernst!” Rikard bellowed.

The door from the antechamber swung open. An armsman came into the salon at a run. He stopped short when he saw the tableau, his sword half-drawn.

“Dare you draw your blade in the presence of a royal princess?” Karel asked again. He held Rikard’s eyes, and then the armsman’s.

The armsman listened to the words. He slid the sword back into its scabbard and lifted both hands, holding them palm outward at his waist. He took a step back, distancing himself from his master.

Rikard didn’t listen. He took another step forward. “Out of my way, you whoreson islander. She’s mine.”

Karel took a pace forward too. “No. The marriage has been annulled.” And silently, he said, Come on, try to take her.

Rikard seemed to hear the unspoken challenge. Metal hissed as he drew his sword.

Everything slowed down, dream-like—Rikard charging with his sword raised, Yasma opening her mouth to scream.

It happened just as Karel had imagined: the weight of the sword in his hands, the flex of his muscles as he swung it. The sword blade caught Rikard solidly below his chin, shearing through flesh, through bone.

He’d seen it a thousand times in his imagination—Rikard’s head spinning, blood spraying across walls and ceiling. In reality it was faster, less messy.

The head struck the floor, bounced, rolled to a halt. The man’s body followed with a meaty thud. Blood gushed across the rugs. Its scent filled his mouth and nose.

Karel lowered his sword. Exultation sang in his veins. He looked at Rikard’s armsman. The man’s face was pale with shock. “Fetch Prince Jaegar.”

The armsman obeyed at a run.

Karel turned. Princess Brigitta crouched behind him, her face buried in her hands.

He dropped the sword and knelt alongside her. “Princess?” He hugged her to him without thinking. “He’s dead. It’s all right.”

She was shuddering.

Karel tightened his grip. He smoothed his hand over the nape of her neck, over her upwoven hair. “He’s dead,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. “Britta, he’s dead.” And then he heard what he’d said—Britta—and realized what he was doing.

He lifted his head and pulled away from her, stopping when her hand clutched his breastplate. “Princess?”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

For a moment she clung to him, shaking, and then she turned her head and looked at the body. Outside, the fifth bell began to toll: noon.

Princess Brigitta inhaled a deep breath. He felt the shuddering stop. She released her grip on his breastplate and pushed away until she was kneeling. She looked at him, meeting his eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, and then she took another deep breath and her face became composed, regal. She stood.

It was my pleasure, princess.

He stood too, reaching down to pick up his sword. Rikard’s blood dripped from the blade.

Karel wiped the sword on a cushion stitched with gold thread and sheathed it.